The Mortal War
by fayzalmoonbeam
Summary: Set during the episode "The Witch of Elsdon", Gisburne contemplates the manner in which his armour was removed for Loxley's plan to work, and learns a few truths about his emotions towards the wolfshead. LoxleyGisburne slash, not too smutty. Comments very


The Mortal War

Pairing: Loxley/Gisburne

Rating: PG-13 (implied smut rather than actual filth!)

Summary: This is set somewhere in the episode _The Witch of Elsdon, _after Gisburne and his men are double crossed by Jennet and ambushed by the outlaws. If there are any inaccuracies, please forgive them, and let me know so I can change them, or cop out and make it an AU! The reasoning behind this is that someone had to strip Guy of Gisburne of his armour, so that Robin could wear it, and why not the wolfshead himself? **G** My grateful thanks to Elegaer for beta reading this-and for making such helpful suggestions :) Dedicated to all on the LJ community Wolfshead, for feeding my obsession :)

_Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war  
How to divide the conquest of thy sight;  
Mine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar,  
My heart mine eye the freedom of that right._

(Taken from Shakespeare's Sonnet 45)

Even after he was returned to Nottingham Castle, the rank humiliation of it all left a bitter taste in Gisburne's mouth. Not only did he have to suffer the indignity of being defeated by the wolfshead, but to be stripped of his clothing and chain mail, that was far worse. And of course, _someone_ had had to do the stripping.

Pouring himself a large cup of wine, once he was safely ensconced in his chambers, Gisburne reflected on the events of the past twenty-four hours. If only he hadn't met that fair-haired witch from the hovel that called itself Elsdon. It was she who had started this chain of events, and, much as he was loath to admit it, her witnessing of his degradation at the hands of the outlaws gave the wound an extra sting. He should have left her well alone; but as he reluctantly admitted to himself, he hadn't the sense at the time. The Sheriff had hit a little close to home when he remarked about the attractiveness of that particular country witch; but then, the Sheriff, in truth, didn't know the half of it.

Gisburne settled back onto the bed in his chamber, thanking his lucky stars that De Rainault had at least, eventually, seen some sort of sense, and made the exchange with Loxley; Tom of Elsdon's life for Gisburne's own. Yes, he thought, the next time he saw an attractive woman, he'd think twice about commandeering her for his own purposes. It wasn't that he was ashamed of the witchcraft trial; for all he knew, the woman actually _was_ turning his soldiers into frogs with those potions of hers, and by God she was attractive, but if he'd realised what he was going to be led into by accusing her, he'd have stayed well away.

In truth, Gisburne was under no illusions about his human urges. He was a hot-blooded, hotheaded knight who responded with his heart and his haunches. There was nothing wrong in that, so far as it went. After all, what daughter of the county would refuse a dalliance with an attractive noble such as he? However, the willing maidens, and the Sheriff's concubines, had become rather tiresome to Gisburne of late. It could be argued that he'd had too much of a good thing. Ever since his path, and sword had crossed with the wolfshead, he had found distraction elsewhere.

If the truth be told, that was why he had reacted so strongly when Jennet, the Witch of Elsdon, had so conclusively rejected his advances. He'd been preoccupied by encroaching thoughts of the inhabitants of Sherwood, and he had been seeking a little diversion for a few hours to take his mind off it all. The Sheriff had been making increasingly sarcastic remarks about his lack of progress in catching the wolfshead and his motley band of savages, and Gisburne had ridden out that day wanting to escape from de Rainault's barbs. When he had discovered Jennet picking wild roots and herbs on the outskirts of the forest, she had seemed the perfect diversion. Unfortunately, she hadn't shared his enthusiasm. Even if she had succumbed to him, Gisburne thought now, he doubted his appetite would have been sated for long.

As soon as he'd realised that his mind had been wandering in the direction of Sherwood Forest, Gisburne had desperately attempted to stop it. For three days prior to the Elsdon incident, he had bedded any woman within reach, almost frantic in his need to blot out his treacherous emotions. In his sheer desire to deny his own thoughts, he'd driven his body to the limit with willing (and unwilling) women, and still, _he_ haunted him. In the throes of passion, on the verge of release, it was _his _face he'd see before his eyes, _his_ name he'd scream on the precipice, until Gisburne thought he was going insane. Was it just his obsession with destroying Loxley that led him to imagine his presence in the moments before his release, or was he falling under the animal spell of the wolfshead?

Things came to a head the night before he'd met the witch; a night that saw him restless and irritable. That was when he'd had the dream. Lying in his bed, alone for the first time in what seemed like months, Loxley, raven haired and defiant, eyes sparkling in the semi darkness, had come to him. In his drowsy state, his unconscious mind had taken over, torturing him with imaginary caresses until he had woken, hot and hard, crying Loxley's name aloud. It was lucky for him that the Sheriff was out of the county on business, because he didn't know what story he'd have had to tell to explain away his desire-wracked howls.

Now, finally, he was back in the castle, after his latest encounter with Loxley and the outlaws. Shuddering, he recalled his treatment at their hands: at _his _hands. Recalling those particular memories necessitated another large cup of wine, which Gisburne quickly poured. He didn't want to keep playing the events of the previous day over in his mind, but some part of him would not let him forget them.

Of course, he should never have been so stupid as to trust the witch. He had warned the Sheriff that she would turn on them, that she would, more than likely, go running to Robin i'th'Hood and tell him and his band the whole story, but the Sheriff's lust for Robin i'th'Hood's capture had been overwhelming. De Rainault had insisted that the plan should be carried out, and as Gisburne had feared, it had ended disastrously. They had been fooled; the fair witch had betrayed them and he'd been humiliated.

It wasn't just being defeated by Loxley and his men that had frustrated and angered Gisburne. He had to admit, if only to himself, that his feelings ran deeper than that. After all, he had been beaten by the outlaws before, and he'd accepted it, as far as possible, as an occupational hazard. Guy the Gamekeeper wasn't used to being outrun by his prey, but this was a whole new scenario. This was different. He, himself, was different.

Gisburne thought back to the first time he had seen Loxley after the wolfshead had claimed Sherwood as his own. He couldn't clearly recall when exactly it had been, but he remembered how different the man had seemed from their initial encounter when Loxley and the simpleton Much had been caught poaching the Sheriff's deer. From the moment he saw Loxley emerge from the greenwood, Gisburne was off his game, and angry about it. The man stood, jaw tilted defiantly upward, bow thrust forward in a gesture of ownership, dark hair stirring slightly in the summer breeze that rustled through the trees. And those eyes; those intense brown eyes that regarded him with such a stark stare. Somehow it didn't matter that Gisburne was mounted and Loxley was on foot; that gaze bridged the distance.

So, a little time later, probably less than a month if truth be told, it was with small surprise that Gisburne found himself ambushed and at the mercy of the outlaws. He didn't like it, but he was beginning to realise that Sherwood Forest was no longer his exclusive territory. He wasn't overly amused about the turn of events, but there was very little he could do.

Shivering slightly at the memory of their most recent encounter, Gisburne pulled his cloak a little tighter. Although lagging behind when his men were in battle was uncharacteristic of Gisburne, who far preferred to be in the thick of things, he had been chastened somewhat by his last run in with the outlaws. Consequently, he had ridden after his soldiers until he was more sure of the state of the opposition.

He and his men had been following the woman, Jennet, who had supposedly drugged the outlaws with one of her potions. Indeed, when Gisburne reached the camp, it seemed to all intents and purposes, to be ruined. Bodies lay everywhere, some close to the smoking embers of a fire, some facing the sky, eyes blank. The fat brother Tuck gazed unseeing at the canopy of trees above the encampment, and Gisburne recognised one or two of the wolfshead's men scattered around. Gisburne dismounted, and strode closer to the camp, searching for the man whose head the Sheriff wanted on a pike.

It didn't take long to find him; and Gisburne couldn't resist gloating a little. "Remember me, Loxley?" He called, voice slightly husky to his own ears. He bent down, and, making sure he was unobserved, he touched the wolfshead's raven hair. It looked more like a gesture of ownership than a caress, or so Gisburne thought, as if he was taking the pelt of some rare wild animal.

Touching Loxley had been the worst mistake of his life thus far. The other man, seemingly dead, sprang to life, sword in hand, eyes blazing. For a few moments he and Gisburne parried, both equally matched, blades flashing in the sunlight. Gisburne could see the challenge in Loxley's eyes, and, had he had the time to think, he'd have marvelled at Loxley's swordsmanship. The man fought with a style and grace that far outstripped many of Gisburne's training partners, moving quickly and easily, blocking and parrying with ease. As it was, it was all over in minutes. As they finally finished duelling, Gisburne's breath caught in his throat for a moment; it wasn't just fear and surprise that made him falter.

Sensing his advantage, Robin of Loxley had dragged Gisburne to the ground and he had found himself totally at the mercy of the new lord of the greenwood. He was unable to fight back.

"Let's see how you like the witch's treatment," Loxley had said, his tone deceptively light. "But first, I'll get what I came for." He jerked Gisburne to his feet and glanced back at his men. They were all waiting for his command. Observing their absolute loyalty to their leader, Gisburne felt a stab of jealousy. His men had never served him so willingly.

"John, take Will and sweep the outskirts to flush out any more of the Sheriff's men," Loxley began, speaking with confidence and vigour. Gisburne noted that he didn't need to bark his orders, he just spoke and the outlaws obeyed.

"Marion, find Jennet and calm her," Loxley continued. When Marion began to protest, he cut her off, but not unkindly. "She can't be out here in the forest alone-she'll never return alive." Marion nodded, albeit reluctantly, and headed off in the opposite direction to the men.

"The rest of you," Loxley concluded, speaking primarily to Much, the Miller's son, "stay here and clear this camp. Now that Gisburne here and the soldiers know this place, we need to keep as far away from here as possible, and leave no further clue as to our whereabouts."

Gisburne swallowed, and finally found his voice. "And what are you to do with me, Loxley?" He spat, summoning as much courage as he could.

"You have something I want," Loxley replied, his dark eyes deepening a little. "And, to spare your blushes, you and I are going to go a little deeper into the woods, so your men don't see you in a state unbecoming for a noble of your position." Gisburne couldn't tell if Loxley was teasing him, but he realised that he had very little choice about his next steps, and so, when Loxley's hand prodded him firmly in the back, he began to walk.

"You won't get away with this, Loxley," Gisburne began again. "The Sheriff will send men-tens of men into the forest when he realises that my party has not returned." Stumbling slightly over a loose tree root, he was all too aware when Loxley grabbed his arm to prevent him from falling.

"I've no doubt," Loxley replied. "But we shall deal with more men as we've dealt with those you brought here today. Eventually, the Sheriff will have to concede the point to us."

"You can't hide in here forever, wolfshead," sneered Gisburne. "Sooner or later your head will be on a stake at Nottingham Castle and this pitiful rebellion will be over."

"Is that so?" Loxley replied, stopping for a moment. He gestured expansively. "Look around you, Gisburne, what do you see?" Gisburne looked blank. Loxley continued, catching hold of a low hanging new branch of the nearest oak tree. Despite himself, Gisburne watched Loxley's long fingers separate a leaf from the branch and twist it between his hands, stroking the separate veins with delicate motions. It didn't even occur to him to try to escape. He was mesmerised by this small action. "This is our home. We know it better than any of the Sheriff's men." Loxley murmured. "We might lose men to battle, but we fight on our own ground here. No paid soldier can win against men who are fighting for their home." He looked at Gisburne once more, straight into his eyes. For a moment, their gaze held. Gisburne swallowed again, not entirely from fear. He felt the intensity of Loxley's gaze boring into him, as if the outlaw was looking at Gisburne's very soul. Then, as Loxley dropped the leaf to the ground, Gisburne seemed to return to the present.

"Your sentimentality astounds me!" Gisburne retorted. "Your home? You are nothing more than serfs and savages, Loxley. You give yourself and your outlaws graces that do not exist. You might have the upper hand temporarily, but in the long term, you will be slaughtered like sheep."

"I wouldn't be so certain of who is to be slaughtered, if I were in your position," Robin replied. Again, his lightness of tone belied the words he spoke. "Here you are, friendless, abandoned by your men, and in the company of the most wanted man in Nottingham. What makes you think I won't just slaughter you?"

Gisburne gulped. "You wouldn't dare."

The moment he said it, he knew he was wrong. As sleek and quick as lightening, Loxley had drawn his dagger and was behind Gisburne, pressing its blade to his throat.

"Wouldn't I?" Loxley hissed. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't."

"If you do it, the Sheriff will hunt you to the end of the forest," Gisburne croaked. He was suddenly aware, not just of the proximity of Loxley's knife to his throat, but also of the closeness of Loxley's body to his own. He could feel the other man's heat in waves, and smell his sweat. His senses sharpened, and so did the sudden stab of desire, stronger than any knife. In spite of the dagger pressing uncomfortably into his neck, it was all he could do not to lean into the other man's savage embrace.

"Are you absolutely certain of that?" Loxley whispered, close to Gisburne's ear. "How much are you really worth to de Rainault?" He pressed closer to the prone nobleman, and Gisburne felt the hard contours of the muscles in his chest leaning into his own back. His body involuntarily responded, and he felt the heat of his arousal start to rise.

Gisburne shuddered, and prayed that Loxley would assume he was wincing in revulsion, or fear. Anything was preferable to betraying the truth behind the sensation. He wouldn't allow himself to be given away like this. "Do you really want to find out?" He muttered back, rather hoarsely.

Loxley released him, and spun him around so that they were facing each other. "Gisburne, you've read my mind," he said. "Today, we are going to find out just how dear you are to the Sheriff. We'll see if he's a bargaining man."

Almost sorry to have been pushed away, Gisburne looked back at Loxley. They were nearly the same height, he realised, he himself being taller by an inch or two. He hadn't noticed before, as whenever he'd encountered the wolfshead in the past Gisburne had been on horseback. Physically, in spite of the contrast between flaxen and night dark hair, their bodies were also similar; both hardened through battle, long, muscular arms and legs and broad chests. Irrationally, the thought of Loxley's naked body, stripped of the deep green tunic and lighter breeches that fitted rather too closely, flashed through Gisburne's conscious mind, and he tried, a little too late, to quash it.

"I suppose you're just going to walk into Nottingham and demand an audience with the Sheriff?" Gisburne countered, trying to recover his composure.

Loxley regarded him with a cool, measured stare. "In a manner of speaking," he replied. Then, without warning, he reached out a hand and touched the chain mail on Gisburne's chest. "Of course, that's where this comes in."

"Forgive me if your reasoning escapes me," Guy retorted. "What exactly is it that you are suggesting?" He'd partially recovered his composure, in spite of Loxley's touch. He was, at that moment, desperately trying to remember that he was a Norman noble and that Loxley was a mere serf; the knowledge kept sliding away from him as quickly as he tried to hold onto it. Gisburne knew that this trial was far from over.

With a glint in his eyes that made Gisburne even more wary, Loxley explained. "You're absolutely right, my lord," he began. "_I _can't walk into Nottingham-but _you _can." Absently he reached out again, this time touching Gisburne's forearm. To Gisburne if felt like the most intimate of caresses.

Gisburne looked blank again. Hadn't Loxley effectively just said that he was going to hold he, Gisburne, to ransom? And now he was suggesting that he walk back into Nottingham? He tried in vain to hide his confusion. Unfortunately, Loxley noticed the uncertainty in his eyes.

"Gisburne, if you'd think with your head instead of your sword arm once in a while, you'd see exactly what it is that I'm suggesting!" The glint in his eyes turned quickly to mockery. "Or didn't your father teach you that brains are the best asset in battle?"

All of a sudden the rage and desire that had been building up inside Gisburne boiled over. "Do not even assume to speak of my father, serf!" He hissed, seizing the front of Loxley's tunic. "You have no right!" The two men were frozen for a moment, Loxley caught with a look of slight surprise at Gisburne's sudden outburst, and Gisburne himself beginning to tremble, cursing the fact that the wolfshead had unsettled him so easily.

"Enough!" Loxley ended the moment, grabbing Gisburne's arm and thrusting it away. "It's time for you to surrender what I need."

"Never!" Gisburne hissed, still angry.

Loxley raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I think you will," he replied mildly. "If you want to get out of Sherwood alive." He began to unlace the front of his tunic. "Now get that armour and those well cut clothes off." Quickly he pulled his tunic over his head and placed it down behind him.

Looking at Loxley in shock, it did not, nevertheless, escape Gisburne that the outlaw was supremely well built. He found his gaze wandering across Loxley's broad chest, and had to suppress a desire to reach out a hand and feel if the wolfshead's skin was as warm to the touch as it looked. Ashamed of his treacherous thoughts, and trying desperately to think of something else, the outlaw's plan became suddenly clear.

"You're not going to walk into Nottingham, are you?" He said, softly. "You're going to ride in, pretending to be me."

"At last!" Loxley replied, giving Gisburne a scornful look. "My noble lord understands the plan."

"And what will become of me in the meantime?" Gisburne asked, suddenly fearful. Loxley was enough to make him apprehensive, but at least he appeared to have some sense of right and wrong. Gisburne wasn't so certain that Loxley's followers would be quite so clear-cut about the boundary.

"My men will take care of you," Loxley replied. "After all, if you are murdered in the forest, we have nothing to bargain with." He paused, and looked directly at Gisburne. "I hope the Sheriff values your life as much as you seem to think he does."

Standing there, half naked, his skin slightly dappled by the sunlight that streamed through the leaves and branches of the surrounding oak trees, Loxley was god of this place, and Gisburne knew he had no choice other than to concur. He swallowed again, his throat suddenly dry and ran a nervous hand through his dishevelled blonde hair.

"Very well, Loxley," Gisburne muttered. "But if any harm should come to me, you and your men will suffer." He slid off his gauntlets and began to wriggle out of the chain mail. It felt absurdly good, despite the circumstances, to escape from it. He held it out to Loxley, who placed it on the ground beside him.

"And your clothes," Loxley stated.

Gisburne opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced by Loxley's look. He pulled the deep blue shirt over his head and again passed it to Loxley. In spite of the coolness of the surrounding forest, Gisburne felt suddenly hot under Loxley's appraising stare.

"It seems that, despite all of your fine food and good wine, you realise that a soldier's best asset is his own body," Loxley said, almost teasingly. He seemed, at last, to sense Gisburne's discomfort at being so close to him. With a half-serious, half jovial look on his face, he stepped forward and ran a cool hand down Gisburne's muscular arm. "It's small wonder at times that we are so evenly matched." His hand rested for a moment at the crook of Gisburne's elbow. He appeared genuinely fascinated, for a moment, by Gisburne's half naked appearance.

Gisburne tried not to show how much Loxley's touch was affecting him, but he felt himself harden under his breeches, and he knew that this was the worst possible moment for this to occur. He shrugged out of Loxley's touch, and stepped back a little. He was as unnerved by Loxley's energy as he was the sudden contact between him. Truly, the man seemed to be an entity born of the forest; it was as if he was the physical embodiment of the strange energy that seemed to permeate Sherwood. Shaking his head, trying to clear his mind, Gisburne attempted to put his odd feelings and emotions down to the forest's own magic. He was half successful.

"My lord, I hate to rush you, but with every moment you delay, your life, and Tom of Elsdon's life, hang in the balance. Therefore, I suggest it would be wise for you to discard the rest of your clothes as quickly as possible." Loxley regarded Gisburne with a measured gaze and quickly shrugged on Gisburne's shirt.

"I suppose you'd have me dressed in your rags," Gisburne's voice held the faintest of tremors.

"Not at all," Loxley replied. "Our man of the church, Tuck, has generously found some garments for you." Reaching behind some large rocks, Loxley threw a white shirt and leggings in Gisburne's direction. "It should be sufficient to keep you warm-for now." He paused and looked at Gisburne once again. "I am going to need _all _of your clothes if I am to reach Nottingham Castle unscathed," he replied.

_Damn the man!_ Gisburne thought in frustration. "Is this really necessary, Loxley?" He responded, knowing that if he were to strip entirely, the last shreds of his control and his dignity would be lost.

"Somehow you never struck me as the blushing maiden type," Loxley replied, seemingly highly amused by Gisburne's hesitation. "I'm sure you wouldn't have any qualms stripping in front of your Sheriff." In a gesture that was surely intended to prove to Gisburne his contrasting total lack of inhibition, Loxley slipped off his own leggings. Fortunately for Gisburne, the blue shirt was very long, and all that was revealed were Loxley's strong, muscular legs. It was sight enough to send another jolt of desire through Gisburne. He realised then that this needed to be over, and quickly.

Gritting his teeth, he slipped off his own breeches, and for a moment he was gloriously naked in front of the wolfshead. He felt Loxley's appraising stare; he didn't have to see it. He knew, despite the coolness of the forest floor, that he was still showing very clear signs of arousal. Trying too quickly to struggle into the garments he'd been given, he tripped on a loose stone and tumbled forward. He barely had time to draw breath as Loxley's arms tightened around him, preventing him from falling.

"Careful, my lord," Loxley murmured, his eyes twinkling with amusement, "the Sheriff won't want you back if you can't stand on your own two feet." He was holding Gisburne tightly by the shoulders, and again, for Gisburne, the moment held a combination of fear and desire. It was as if Loxley's touch was both branding his skin with its heat, and chilling him with its coolness. Gisburne finally knew he was lost to the allure of the outlaw. He had to fight every impulse in his body to stop himself from leaning into Loxley's unintentional caress and crushing his own lips to those of the man who held him. It couldn't be; he knew that, but at that moment all rational sense had left him.

"Unhand me, wolfshead," Gisburne muttered, his face flaming, his voice uncharacteristically husky. "And allow me some privacy." He couldn't look up, for fear of meeting Loxley's eyes. He knew if he did that, he would surrender both body and soul to the man who held him.

Loxley must surely have noticed something in Gisburne's voice this time, for he simply dropped his arms and moved away. "Hurry, my lord," he said, quietly, not unkindly. "For your own sake." Briefly, Gisburne dared to look at Loxley, and his eyes for a moment were sparkling with truth, and knowledge. Then, in a second, they became unreadable.

From the corner of his eye, Gisburne observed Loxley dressing in his own clothes. He realised, with another stab of jealousy that they fitted him extremely well. He also realised that being alone with Loxley was going to be something he couldn't afford to do any longer. A small voice inside his mind whispered the truth; he desired the outlaw.

"I will take you to where my men are waiting," Loxley said, once he had dressed. "They will keep you here until the bargain with the Sheriff is completed." Covering the ground between them quickly, Loxley gestured to their left, and began to walk briskly. Stumbling a little, Gisburne set out after him. He no longer had any words.

In very little time, Gisburne was handed over to the rest of the outlaws, and they administered their own, very watery punishment for a while. Even though he was tied at the end of a ducking stool, and every time he came up for air he could hear the taunts of the men. Somehow, it wasn't as terrible as suffering Loxley's unintentional caresses.

Eventually, he had been returned to Nottingham. Back in his rooms, Gisburne had time to recall and revisit his experiences in Sherwood. His body had betrayed him to Loxley, of that he was certain; now, it was even more important that he regain the upper hand with the outlaws. Draining the second cup of wine, he placed it on the small stand next to his bed. The next time he and Loxley met, Gisburne would ensure that he didn't betray himself again. Settling back to sleep, for the first time in a long time, he dreamed of nothing.


End file.
